The tips of her hair gently brushed across his fingertips, carrying a familiar tingle of crispness and itchiness.
"Hannah."
He called her name in a low voice, his tone enveloping the night and becoming especially tender.
She didn't lift her head as if lost in thought, her gaze still fixated on his fingertips, "Mmh."
Her voice was soft and slightly husky.
The sound of the wind carried the chirping of birds, as if blown from afar.
Arnold Simmons took Hannah's hand that was holding his and cupped her face gently with the other.
She raised her head, yet her gaze remained elsewhere, not on him.
"Are you mad?"
Hannah shook her head wanting to pull her hand back, but he gripped it even tighter, "No."
She truly wasn't mad, just feeling a bit uneasy.
It all felt so unreal.
She really didn't like this sensation of events being out of her control.
Perhaps Wayne Lane had been right in saying she was too confident and competitive.
